


Venture Forth

by standalone



Series: Teachers AU [5]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9195737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standalone/pseuds/standalone
Summary: Simon comes home. To Baz.(A little Simon-POV addition toThis is Mr. Pitch, this takes place between chapters 12 and 13.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snowflake8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowflake8/gifts), [Vito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vito/gifts).



> Happy new year, wonderful friends. Both of you have given so much to _Mr. Pitch_ and to me. I hope you've forgotten all the wonderful suggestions you made for this story that follows, so that it will feel like the magical fulfillment of your Teachers!Simon visions.
> 
> Many thanks to the gracious and insightful [violetbronte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/violetbronte/pseuds/violetbronte) for the beta reads!

From [Chapter 13 of _This is Mr. Pitch_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5898043/chapters/16036606):

_He leads three different treks that first summer—Rockies, Sierras, and Everglades—and comes back from each pungent, lean, burnt, and beaming._

_While he's gone, Baz starts sleeping in a couple of Simon's old t-shirts that have been kicking around his place. They're very soft, and they have a pleasantly faint smell like grass and woodsmoke. He refuses to relinquish them when Simon comes home._

* * *

I was gonna come back tomorrow. There was some kind of fancy hotel waiting for me in Miami, with a shower and everything, and (Baz won’t buy this, but) I’d been having literal _dreams_ about a good scrub followed by a full-on snoring, grunting sleep on a real bed, but then we were at the airport packing all the teary campers off to their various destinations and we adults had just stepped outside to find a cab when my feet stopped moving forward.

“Wait,” I said. Sydney stopped. She led all three trips with me this summer—her and me and Ben, plus our various local outdoor-ed partners. Syd and Ben are both totally fucking chill; they’re also both totally fucking each other, but they still thought I didn’t know that. 

We were in three different groups on this Everglades trip, ten kids each, a bunch of canoes. We crossed paths every couple days, touched bases. One of Sydney’s kids got airlifted out when he broke his leg. Ben’s whole crew got head lice and spent all their free time bonding via nit-picking while the one with a shaved head entertained the rest on a contraband mouth-harp, plus Ben’s outdoor-ed partner sang Joanna Newsom songs to herself while she paddled. Ben, a guy so patient that his approach to mosquitoes is to sit very calmly until they decide they’ve had enough and move along, was losing his shit.

My group was the fucking best. A couple of them had a fistfight on day two, and I sat their angry asses down, calm as hell, and said they were sharing a tent and a canoe for the rest of the trip or they were both on the next flight home; they cried when they hugged each other goodbye this morning. The kids all took about five thousand group selfies when we gave them their phones back at the airport after 19 days of extreme nature. I actually really hope they send them to me like they all said they would. 

But anyway: leaving airport, I said wait, Sydney stopped, grabbed Ben’s arm, Ben stopped. 

“I don’t really _need_ to be there tonight, right?” I asked.

“For the debrief?” Ben asked. It’s a Venture Forth tradition: the group leaders debrief each trip immediately, in person, while it’s still fresh, then again a month later by phone when they’ve had time to reflect. I like it. But.

“Yeah.”

“You trying to get home?” Sydney winked. “See that Baz of yours?”

“Thinking about it.”

She nodded back inside toward the ticket counter. “See if they can get you in. We’ll wait.”

I honestly felt a little bad for the ticket person. I haven’t mentioned, but I am fucking disgusting right now. I look and feel like a man who’s spent the last almost-three weeks sleeping on beaches and washing in the ocean. My hair’s clumpy, skin roasted, and my shirt would be sweat-stained under the arms if it even pretended to _have_ arms. Actually, it’s basically just one big floppy sweat stain anyway. I can only imagine how other people smell me right now. I’m wallowing in it. I can’t even tell anymore.

Maybe I look like the scuzzy surf bro in a light-beer ad. More likely I just look scuzzy, and smell worse.

Bless the ticket person, though, and bless my stink if it was the incentive that got her to transfer my ticket from tomorrow to the red-eye tonight so I would get the hell away from her shiny white ticket counter. 

“Let’s just debrief here,” Ben suggested, pointing to a swamp-themed airport bar. “Since you’ve got a while to wait for that flight.” We clinked shots. “Guess I should cancel your room,” Ben said, pulling out his cell, and I said, “You might as well cancel yours too,” and they both looked at me uncertainly like wondering what I know.

“You fucking assholes,” I laughed, “you think you’re keeping some kind of secret?”

So Ben shrugged a question at Sydney, and Sydney said, “Hell yeah, ditch the room. You weren’t going to use it anyway.” She blew him a kiss and I felt pretty good about that.

A few rounds of shots and quesadillas and a moderately well-documented debrief later, I hugged them both and plowed through security, and the plane was on time and I boarded and (thank fuck for all the booze), I conked out for the whole flight.

And now, here I am on Baz’s doorstep because even if I told myself the plan was to go to my shitty apartment first to shower, when I got into the car at the airport, my mouth told the driver Baz’s address. 

The whole drive from the airport, while the driver was too busy trying to breathe through her mouth to talk to me, I was thinking about the first time Baz brought me there, how totally bonkers it was to see his shit up close, to get this window into his life that, like, _no one_ gets. 

I mean, maybe not the very first time he took me to his place—I was too fucked by the staggering goddamn revelation that magic exists outside of my head to really contemplate the surroundings. I even tried to sex-magic him, which I can at least try to pretend I wouldn’t have been brash enough to try if my brain hadn’t been all muddled.

I’ve never fucked anyone that way—not by compelling them. At least, not on purpose. Thank fucking god Baz doesn’t go down easy.

And thanks twice that Baz decided I was pathetic enough that he should keep letting me come back. I got to see where he slept. I got to see his fucking _parents’_ house. I got to see Watford High’s hottest teacher—hell, the hottest colleague I’ve ever had—do a naked triple-front-flip into a swimming pool in the rain. I was so fucked. Like, I was still floored that I was even there, yeah, but being there and getting to have all this and not having _Baz_ started to just clobber me. 

Then there was that night with the whiskey and the questions and the freezer full of blood and I knew—I already _knew_ , okay? and maybe it was half stereotypes and half deathwishful thinking but whatever reason, I knew he was a vampire and I was so through with the wanting-and-not-having that I more or less hoped he’d show those teeth and pop my neck wide open—and I just couldn’t pretend anymore that I didn’t want every inch of him. 

I fucked that up good. I remember shivering on this very doorstep waiting for Baz to come home, and him finally stepping out of the dark streaming with blood and he looked _jacked_ , and fuck knows how I managed to say something that wasn’t _**“Let me blow you,”**_ but apparently I managed, because here I am, somehow, again, between the letterboxes and the buzzer, and this time, I can let myself in.

I code my way in the main door and then again at his condo and then I’m putting my stuff down in the entryway and trying not to be too noisy about it when he says, seriously right the fuck behind me, “No knock?”

My heart was thumping hard already with the creeping in while Baz sleeps. I should’ve known Baz doesn’t sleep through intruders. Now it’s pounding. I whirl on him and he grabs me and pulls me close, and his voice is dry as emery paper, and _fuck_ , those hands. “I expected you tomorrow.”

“It _is_ tomorrow,” I point out, trying to kiss him but failing because of his irritatingly superhuman strength. I’m already hard. I have been in the wild long enough that I can’t remember life without the constant company of ten nosy at-risk youth. I have literally only had the privacy to jerk it like twice that whole time. I am here, and I am _ready_. “I was gonna go home first to get cleaned up, but then I thought...” 

He cuts me off with a growling noise and kisses me.

In the dark, his mouth tastes like spices and heat. He’s laughing into my mouth while he kisses me, because I’m already _all_ the way up on him, grinding like my cock’s gonna bore itself a hole to fuck, and he probably smells me—who am I kidding, he probably smelled me from the second the cab dropped me off, ‘cause his senses are that good, and my smell is that bad—and his hands run along the underside of my biceps, which are resting on his shoulders, and down my sides, and I melt against them.

Baz stops.

I moan.

“Mr. Snow,” he asks, incredulous, “ _what_ are you wearing?”

“I don’t fucking know,” I say, and rip the filthy last vestiges of the shirt clean off.

Baz clucks lightly. “Quite a show,” he says, but I can tell he’s impressed.

His hands slide down my chest. Weeks of rowing have done their work on my glamour muscles—not that Baz is just in it for the glamour. He likes the _muscle_ muscles. Fortunately, these are that, too.

“Imagination really is a tragic substitute.”

“Been doing a lot of imagining since I left?”

“You could say so.” 

My trunks are way too constricting for this, but they are also, if anything, more disgusting than the shirt. I wiggle them off, stomping my feet free, and I’m naked.

“You ready for this?” I ask him, leaning back against the hall wall behind me. 

He laughs. “You should see yourself.”

“I should see _you_ , you mean.” We can’t all see in the dark.

Across the room, Baz’s little glass desk lamp flicks on and Baz becomes visible.

Shadowed and sneery in that way I used to think was sanctimonious, he’s watching me intently.

I’m transported.

How many times did he look at me that way before I got my shit together and got at him?

He says I was oblivious, but how on earth was I supposed to know that Baz’s sex faces all look like he’s on the verge of murder? I mean, I knew _I_ liked when he looked at me extra stabby, but I’m an asshole who feeds on negative attention. I didn’t know he was into it too.

Honestly, I don’t think I fully pieced it together till the night we finally convinced each other we wanted this, by which point we were pretty blitzed, and Baz looked like if he had the wherewithal to get it done, he’d be crushing the woozy life from Drunkenness with his bare hands. Me, that night, I would’ve fucked him black-out drunk (with a skunk, on a boat, in a moat, whatever), and seeing the raging intensity of Baz’s wrath at the world for not letting him let himself fuck me right then, well, that sure as hell did nothing to deter me. 

I don’t remember the last time someone I wanted wanted me that hard.

And then when he finally let me, I fucked with him. I teased him. I talked shit and tried to make him mad. I figured he’d yell at me, or boss me around, or make me do it his way. Except for the shit where I almost magic-roofied him, he let me do what I wanted. To him. With him. For him.

I’m not always so good at taking care of my partners in sex, but to be fair, that’s ’cause most of my partners have been pricks. Mostly quick pick-ups. I tried boyfriending a couple times, but I was real shitty at it. My buddy Constance from the Foster Center reminded me that we’re always making the kids get relationship counseling because none of us fosters know shit about healthy relationships, so I tried it out for a hot minute, but the counselor basically said, “If your whole thing is assholes who treat you bad, you’re probably better off sticking with the fuck-and-runs.”

In fact, the closest thing I had to a regular thing in years was this tall, skinny guy I met in a club the night after I punched Baz in the face. His silhouette in the purple club lights was close enough to get me to dance over, and he looked my bruised body up and down, raised a disapproving eyebrow, and inquired, with a haughty accent that went right to my guts, “Bar fight?” I stuck a hand down Raj’s pants right there.

I’d drop by Raj’s place a couple days a week after staff meetings or lessons with Baz—sometimes to fuck, but a lot of the time I’d just get him off. Raj works from home, and didn’t seem to mind having me rush in to jerk him while I let Baz scold me on replay in my head. “Other guy won’t give it up?” he asked one of the last times. I’d had to pull myself off while he fucked me rough over his desk. Raj didn’t give a shit if I came, which was fine by me.

“Yeah,” I said, buttoning my fly. “But I’ma talk to him. Later, bruh.”

“Best of luck,” he nodded, and pulled his headphones back on. 

The first time I blew Baz was the first time I actually gave a shit how good I am with a beej. Most dudes are just glad they’ve got a mouth sucking their cock, but Baz appreciates excellence. So do I. Baz comes like fire explodes through a building, hot and wild and liable to be the death of someone. And Baz—

—is right here, laughing to himself behind that sharp, twisted facade while I stare blankly and reminisce about fucks gone by.

“Jesus fuck,” I say, shaking my head. “Jesus, Baz.” I get to come _home_ to him. 

“You appear to be distracted,” he says with a small smile, tilting his head in a way that is coy in roughly the same way that the velociraptors’ head-tilts in the kitchen scene in _Jurassic Park_ are coy. He’s got something up his sleeve. I narrow my eyes.

It’s only then that what I’m looking at sinks in. Tyrannus Basilton Pitch is wearing a _band t-shirt_ —and not just any band shirt, but _my_ sunshine-yellow Permutations of LOL Tri-state Tour 2012 shirt. After all the shit he’s talked about the travesty of my wardrobe, I’d tear it off his hypocritical torso, but it’s a fucking great shirt, plus it’s real tight over his chest and shoulders.

“Take it off,” I say instead. My voice tends to squeak with feeling, so I force it low. It rumbles. 

He smirks at me from under his brows, then lifts the shirt clean away.

Oh fuck, I forgot till now to miss how he smells. 

I kiss him everywhere I can reach. A nice bonus of dating a vampire is they can’t get that precious about an occasional ear rimming or armpit nibble. Like, you eat blood, bro. This shit’s nothing. 

I suck one of his nipples into my mouth. Baz fucking loves this, and he cannot even handle it, he’s already grabbing for me, but I catch his wrists. 

“Hold it,” I order him. I try not to look down where I know my cock is a bright and bulging mess in its readiness for him. I’m basically gonna go off the second he touches me, and I have to hold off on that, ’cause the second I’m done coming, I’m for sure gonna fall asleep.

Baz, who could overpower me with his little finger, freezes in my hands.

“Why are you wearing my clothes, Baz?” I demand.

He looks evenly down at me. “Surely you don’t require that I spell it out.”

I slide my fingers over his cock, rock-hard through his sleep pants, taunting him. “Surely you don’t require ... _anything_ from me.”

“Simon,” he says with resignation and warmth and a blindingly unfair gravity in his voice. “I love you and I miss you when you’re away. Your shirts are, obviously, reminders of you.”

“You jerk off while you’re wearing my clothes, Baz?”

Baz doesn’t blush, but the sides of his nostrils flare a little when he’s feeling sheepish. “On occasion,” he says. 

Fuck, the pictures in my head right now. Baz’s face is like iron when he’s jerking it. That face, that concentration, and Permutations or confetti-sprinkled Fox’s Wedding or, fuck, that Whence Boners shirt I hacked the sleeves off of… 

“Oh shit, Baz, tell me you’ve been wearing Whence Boners.”

The severity of the sneer tells me Whence Boners will always be the shirt too far. “How low do you think I've sunk?”

I laugh and thumb his dick through the cloth. “If you’re going down, why not go all the way?”

Baz is definitely shaking his head at me.

“Did you notice the innuendo?”

“Shut it, Snow,” he growls. “If anyone’s going down here—”

“You inviting me?”

“Any time.”

I’m not, like, a cock-worshiper; like, I don’t give a shit about hugeness or proportionality or slippiness of foreskin or whatever the shit those bros get off on. But Baz has a fucking perfect cock. I’m not gonna break it down for you. It’s just fucking great. 

I could suck him for hours. Sometimes I do. There’s this spell Baz knows that makes everything move in slow motion. It’s supposed to be for precision craftsmanship or some shit. It makes a blowjob into a full afternoon’s entertainment.

But right now, I suck fast and I suck hard. I don’t care whether my tongue drags across every ridge on the underside of his cock with each pull; I’m just getting him close so he can give it to me. 

I magic my ass wet; no one’s touched it since I left for the trip. I consider sticking a finger in to open myself up and quickly reconsider. First off, I’m not trying to come around my hand, and second, I want to feel it so serious. Fuck that. 

_**“Up,”**_ I say, and I know that’s not the whole thing, but who fucking cares, it works. I lift my feet off the ground and lift them to each side of Baz’s waist, my body floating in front of him. He grabs my hips and drags me close. I feel his cock-head against my neglected hole, on the verge of pushing in. He hesitates.

“Fuck me open,” I say against his ear, then snap my teeth shut around his earlobe, and Baz fucks into me so hard that I can almost let myself believe he momentarily lost control. There’s a sharp sudden hint of pain as he goes deeper than I’ve readied for, and I moan and hold myself back because I’m walking a very fine line here and he eyes me and sees I wanted that pain and his face grows starkly more severe. His thoughts on inflicting pain are complicated.

There’s no pain now, though; thanks to my anti-gravity charm, I’m floating in his arms, the barest movements gliding me smoothly on and off his cock. It’s gentle enough that I can probably tough it out for at least another minute before I go off. I tilt his chin up and kiss him. “You fucking missed this, didn’t you, Baz? Missed fucking this ass?”

“Everything about you, ass,” he mutters behind tight lips, which means I’ve got him hot enough that the teeth are out. “End the spell.”

“The which?”

“The _Up, Up..._ ”

Baz’s hands are under my thighs, holding tight. I gesture to end the spell and weight retakes me with crushing familiarity. But I don’t go crashing down. All I crash into is the opposite wall of the hallway—Baz, now supporting me, has charged forward to slam me against it, and, gripping me from below my ass, he fucks me so hard the framed prints rattle on the wall. 

For all the daydreaming that went on in those long days of canoeing, those nights I managed to creep away into the jungle for a quick one-off while my campers slept, I tried not to think too specifically about Baz. It was a lot less complicated to just plunge into blandly titillating jerk-off material—butts, dicks, nips, some guy getting sucked—work up to it fast, and try not to moan “Baz” too loudly when I came. 

When I’m actually fucking Baz, it’s hard not to think about him, him in specific. “Baz,” I moan as he sandwiches me against the wall, and I’m always still a little humiliated that he can lift me so easily, but that kind of humiliation kind of gets me hot. “Oh fuck,” to come back to this, it’s not just coming back to a convenient fuck, it’s coming back to someone who thinks about me as much as I think about him, who’s been here and waiting, and who—“Fuck, Baz, I can’t wait, I’m going to—”

“I’m here,” he says, eyes locked in on my eyes. “I’m right here with you, Simon.” His hands knead the flesh of my ass as he thrusts up into me; my back drags against the smooth surface of the wall. “Come for me.” 

He kisses me, and I’m gone. 

But I’m also so, so here.


End file.
